Tell Me Why
by KrystalBlaze - Jerikor
Summary: An earthquake and the following blackout leave some Superstars strange things. Now somebody is hunting those Superstars and they must figure out why before it's too late. updated Oct. 14, 2003
1. Early Warning

Tell Me Why  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Kurt!"  
  
Chris Irvine ran to catch up with his friend, who was walking quickly away from the gate they had just walked out of. Kurt stopped and turned around, blinking at him, smiling.  
  
"Hey, buddy. That was really strange, wasn't it?" Chris was panting slightly.  
  
"Yeah," Kurt agreed, nodding fervently. "I can't believe that the stupid arena didn't have a backup generator. It's a good thing the show was just beginning to start and we just got the tail end of the earthquake."  
  
"Yeah," Chris replied, shaking his head. "I've got a killer headache. Imagine what would've happened if it had happened at another time. It's a good thing nobody was hurt. But this is the last time I'm coming back to California."  
  
Kurt laughed. "Let's go, Chris. We both need some sleep after that."  
  
Chris nodded, rubbing his head gingerly, and then alternating with his upper arm. "Yeah, let's go. I could kill for a bed right now."  
  
Kurt batted his eyes. "Why, you make me think you have some cruel intentions with that bed."  
  
Chris nodded seductively. "Let's go, baby, come on, baby, take it off."  
  
They went down the stone walkway, Chris rubbing his arm and head in beat.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The plane rumbled and grumbled and growled. Chris could almost feel the pain riding over on him, overwhelming him. He groaned softly, muffling the sounds with his cheap airline pillow. His companion looked at him peculiarly and gave a short grunt of disgust. Hitting the pillow against his seat, Chris rested his head, looking out at the ground below through the window. Not a very good day, he thought miserably, for an earthquake. He had another show in ten hours and four would be spent on the God-forsaken airplane.  
  
He tried to sleep, to fall into nothing. And he did.  
  
~*~*~The air was glimpsing, red and sweaty. He could hear the heartbeat in his ears, thudding in a roar that was overwhelming still. The air was musty, mist clinging around the branches, heavy and thunderous. The grass was springy, dewy from the rain that had just fallen. Trees kneeled over, dead, spent, broken.  
  
He could hear a dog barking in the distance, the barks heavy and sickening. He could hear cries and whispers, flooding his ears, his heart. Screams came from behind him and he turned. Horrified, he looked into nothing, nothing except a mystical blue mist that seemed to smile at him tauntingly.  
  
"Remember," a little voice in his head whispered as he walked backward, a dog suddenly leaping for him, fangs bared, claws outstretched. He screamed into nothing. "Remember," the voice said, "when we used to call Rival Ranger?"~*~*~*~*  
~*~*~*Kurt~*~*~*~  
  
His head felt a little fuzzy, but he expected it to, with the earthquake and all that jazz. It had been a killer, the earthquake and then the blackout. He had been warming up for his match, but when the earth had started to move, and the lights gone out, that had been forgotten. Stupid lights with no backup generator, very smart.  
  
Kurt entered the Greyhound bus, heading to the back quickly, gaining the prized last seat and shoving his small carry on bag into the overhead storage compartment. He removed his book, a heavy book of poetry his wife wanted him to read, and his CD player with its compilation of Bach, Mozart, and Haydn. Settling into his seat, he felt the pain in his head rise a notch, but nothing too bad.  
  
Putting his earphones on, he leaned against the window, opened the book, and intended to start reading. Instead, he fell into the abyss of sleep.  
  
~*~*~* The mist was heavy purple, but caressing, gentle. He could taste the fragrance of wine in his mouth. Steady breezes paraded him, gentle, loving. He was looking at the ocean, its waves crashing steadily onto the beach, a beautiful melody of sound.  
  
The sand was warm and grainy underneath his toes, but he welcomed it. This really was wonderful. He could die here if he wanted to. All he had to do was call. ~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*  
  
"Take it off, Kurt, take it off," Chris told Kurt, rolling his eyes. "Baby, give it to me."  
  
"You know you want me," Kurt said, his eyes fluttering invitingly. "You know you want this burning hunk of love."  
  
"You boys disturb me," a new voice said. They both turned to look and see Jay Reso come from down the hall, his face twisted. "You don't even invite me into your sex party."  
  
"It wasn't a sex party," Chris said defensively. "But we can make it one if you'd like."  
  
"Count me in," Jay said, winking. "You know I'm a god in bed. Ask Adam, he knows."  
  
"You know, that's just too sick for words, Jay," Kurt said, his voice in mock disgust.  
  
Chris smiled at them, but the pain in his head was too much. He wanted to sit down. He felt dizzy; the world was spinning crazily in cartwheels, small, but still cartwheels. Kurt and Jay went on with their usual banter; Chris lay in the web that his mind spun with the input from his eyes.  
  
He wanted to collapse, break down. Ever since the earthquake, he hadn't been right. Nothing had seemed the same. It was just too much. It was horrible, these vicious headaches and these terrible, terrible dreams. He couldn't remember them, but last night he had woken up screaming in the dark at some imaginary threat.  
  
He tried to remember, to recall, but all he had was the empty dark blank. He wanted to look at Kurt and ask him for answers, but of course, no answers could be made to fit his dreams.  
  
"Chris?"  
  
Kurt's probing voice brought him back to life, woke him. "Yes, Kurt?"  
  
"Are you alright? You look sick."  
  
Chris tried to smile and wave it up, but suddenly he felt vomit rise in his throat violently. He staggered forward, grabbing for the wall, trying to hold it back. Sudden pain rose in his head, heavy and thick and black. His eyes rolled and he felt starved and dehydrated. His eyes started to slip close as the pain in his head intensified.  
  
"Chris! Chris, what's wrong?"  
  
"Buddy, what's up? Chris, Chris, Kurt, grab him!"  
  
He felt listless, lifeless, dead. The pain in his head was shocking. He started to struggle to scream.  
  
"Chris, what are you saying? Buddy, c'mon, what's wrong?"  
  
"He's sick, moron! We've got to get him to the medical office pronto!"  
  
"Chris! Listen to me-"  
  
"Idiot, just move him before I kick you!"  
  
"Kick me? You asshole, that's the last time I invite you to join my sex party!"  
  
Chris could hear the words and he found it funny. He wanted to laugh, but a scream started to erupt, in gulps and cries.  
  
"Hey, what's wrong? Guys?"  
  
He recognized the voice dimly as Stephanie McMahon's.  
  
"Steph! Go and grab the med trainer. Chris is really sick. I don't know what's wrong with him, but he's not talking to us!"  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"I just told you, I don't know! Get Dan! Go now!"  
  
His eyes started to slip shut, shut, and closed. He slipped into darkness.  
  
~*~*~*~* 


	2. The Beginning

He couldn't see when he woke up. It was as if he were in a dark gray void. He floated.  
  
"Chris," said a voice gently above him. "Wake up, Chris. Please wake up or I'll powerbomb you through your bed right now."  
  
Groaning, he opened his eyes.  
  
"Chris!" Kurt leapt from his bedside post. "You're awake!"  
  
"What are you doing here?" Chris mumbled, feeling his head. Suddenly he realized that he was in a bed, with a line trailing into his arm. Gaping, he looked at Kurt, who was sitting there, smiling at him. He was in a hospital, it appeared.  
  
"You're in the hospital, Chris," Kurt told him, his eyes bright. "You fainted in the hallway. You've out for about four hours."  
  
"What's wrong with me?" Chris said hoarsely, struggling to remember. The remembrance came in a few seconds. He remembered the dizziness and the pain he had felt when he had fallen. He tried to put a place to it, but he couldn't.  
  
"The doctors say you're just very sick," said Kurt, honestly. "I told them about the earthquake and they think it may be post-traumatic stress."  
  
"Stress?" Chris asked, in rage. "They think I'm sick because I'm stressed?"  
  
"You only started after the quake, buddy," Kurt said worriedly. "It's a logical reason."  
  
Suddenly the plane trip came back to him. The dream about the mists and the dogs and the little voice in his ear. Suddenly he felt weak.  
  
"Kurt," he said, nauseated. "Please get the doctor for me."  
  
"Are you alright?" Kurt jumped to his feet, his face taunt.  
  
"Yes," Chris said, feeling dizzy. "Just get him, Kurt, please."  
  
"I'll get her, Chris," Kurt said, heading out the door. "She can join our sex party."  
  
Chris blinked after him. He was still going about the sex party? He was a disturbed man.  
  
He lay against the pillow and suddenly he felt drained, exhausted. He wanted to sleep. He fell blissfully asleep.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The street was quiet and heavy with a fragrance she couldn't place. It was blissful, sweet and happy. Laughing, she ran into the street after the ball that her brother had kicked into it. Light poured down on her from the sun, its rays golden and lilting.  
  
"Throw it back," her brother yelled impatiently from the yard. "Throw it back!"  
  
"I'm throwing it!" she announced and threw with all her might. It flew over the fence into the yard smoothly. She felt happy looking at it. She could throw harder than her brother now, it seemed. The fragrance remained, beautiful and lofty. Laughing, she ran back into the yard. She wanted this moment to last forever.~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~  
  
~*~*~  
  
~*~*~  
  
"Kurt!" Stephanie McMahon jogged down the hallway when she saw Kurt's darting frame. "Kurt, stop!  
  
"Stephanie!"  
  
He jerked to a stop in front of her. Loftily, she looked at him. He looked worn.  
  
"Where's Chris?" she quizzed him as she assessed the hospital. Very clean, but she worried for Chris. She had seen his pale pallor before the ambulance had taken him away.  
  
"He's in his room," Kurt said, slightly out of breath. "I'm heading to the nurses' station so they can get his doctor."  
  
"Swell," Stephanie said, pleased. At least Chris wasn't dead yet. "Is he awake?"  
  
"Yes, he just woke up." His eyes went down the hall. "I have to go, Steph. It's down the hallway, room 101. Just walk in. Make sure he's still alive."  
  
"Alright, Kurt, that I can do." She went down the hallway while Kurt darted down the hallway. She hoped Chris wasn't hurt too bad. It hurt her that he had already fainted, but if he was dying or something . . . she didn't want to think about the possibility.  
  
She stopped outside the room and went it.  
  
"Chris?" she asked softly as she entered. "Chris?" She saw him, laying on the bed, an IV stringing into his arm. He was staring at the ceiling and gave no notice of her until she pushed his arm.  
  
"Who's there?" he hissed when she pushed him.  
  
"It's me," she said, surprised at his speech. "Stephanie."  
  
"Stephanie?" His head turned and his eyes burned into hers. "Stephanie, do you see?"  
  
Stephanie blinked. "Uh, yeah, Chris, I have eyes. I see." Was he joking around?  
  
"No, Steph," he urged, his face contorting in passion. "See what I'm seeing. Do you see the trees?"  
  
Stephanie's eyes shot up. "No, Chris, no trees. We're inside."  
  
"Steph," he croaked, his voice panicked. "Why don't you see the trees?"  
  
"Chris, are you all right?"  
  
"I'm scared, Steph," he said, hoarsely, grappling for her hand. Startled, she let him have it. "I'm seeing trees and you're not. Why do I see trees and mist and you don't?"  
  
"There are no trees, Chris," Stephanie said, trying to stay calm. Obviously Chris was hallucinating. She felt his pain. "We're inside, Chris. Just calm down and a doctor will be here in a minute."  
  
"Stephanie," Chris said hoarsely, his eyes bulging. "Stephanie, I'm scared."  
  
"I know, Chris, I know."  
  
Suddenly he held her hand with two hands.  
  
Suddenly she felt electricity ripple through her, a shock wave.  
  
"Chris . . ."  
  
"Trees," he whispered.  
  
"Yes."  
  
~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~* She saw him, standing, underneath a tree that was covered in moss. A dog was fighting its way through the underbrush, its teeth bared, glowing. Its fur was covered in blood and its teeth glowed wickedly.  
  
"Chris," she said, shakily. "Chris, where are we?"  
  
Chris didn't hear her. He turned to run from the dog and screamed, "No, my name is Chris!"  
  
Stephanie saw the dog break through the undergrowth. It leapt at Chris, paws outstretched, flying.  
  
"NO!"  
  
~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*  
  
His hand slipped from hers. She stumbled back, seeing the dog leap, its paws flying.  
  
"Stephanie?" Chris said in a high-pitched voice, one that turned to crying. "Stephanie, help me."  
  
"Chris . . ." Her heart was beating, pounding, bursting through her chest.  
  
"Stephanie," he said, crying, tears running down his face as he looked at her. "What's happening?"  
  
"Nothing, Chris, nothing's happening!" She sat down on the plastic chairs, staring.  
  
Chris continued crying.  
  
She stared. Something had happened. She looked at Chris' sobbing heap. And she didn't like it.  
  
~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~* 


	3. Roll Call

Thanks to all my reviewers. You mean the difference in my life.  
  
~*~*~*~* Tell Me Why ~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
When Kurt entered the room, he was surprised at what he saw. Chris was in his bed, cowering, salty stains on his cheeks. Stephanie was in a chair, staring into space, her eyes unfocused, frightened.  
  
"Chris? Stephanie?" He entered cautiously. "Steph, what's up?"  
  
Stephanie moved her head, it seemed, with a great deal of movement. Her eyes were red and bright. "Chris is sick, Kurt. He's sick real bad."  
  
Kurt nodded, his eyes looking over Chris, who was staring at the ceiling. "I know, Steph. The doctor's on her way, but-"  
  
"No, Kurt, you don't see," Stephanie said, urgently. "He's sick!"  
  
"I know he's sick," Kurt answered, puzzled. "That's why he's here. Why are you guys just sitting here? I expected a little more energy from you two."  
  
Stephanie turned her head to gaze at Chris. "I don't understand. It's stupid. It's not possible. It's a hallucination I had out of sympathy."  
  
Kurt started to feel flustered. "Steph, I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"Trees."  
  
Kurt could barely hear the word that fell from Stephanie's lips.  
  
"Trees, and a dog." Her voice was scratchy. "Trees and a dog flying with its mouth open, glowing."  
  
"Stephanie . . ." He was at a loss for words. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
Suddenly a voice resonated from the door.  
  
"Well, I do," said Dr. Simmons as she opened the door and stepped into the room. "I have to take a look at my patient and make sure he's alright."  
  
"Doctor," Kurt said, nodding. "This is Stephanie McMahon and you already know me."  
  
"Hello," Simmons said curtly to Stephanie and went to the bed. "Well, Chris, how are you feeling?"  
  
Chris looked at her dully, his eyes tearing away from the ceiling. "Not too well, doc. I really don't think I am."  
  
"Well, we'll just check you over . . . a few tests will do the trick. Now sit up."  
  
Chris started to oblige, but suddenly fell back. His mouth opened in a silent scream.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
~~*"Satchel! Satchel, come back! Get back here, you bad dog! Get back here now!"  
  
He ran after Satchel, chasing him. The dog had escaped in the early morning hours and now he was in a speed race with his dog. Satchel was a big dog, part German shepherd, part greyhound, and he was a fast. The dog raced across the empty green field, flying toward the trees.  
  
"Satchel! Sit! Stay!" He ran furiously, pumping his legs. Satchel was a good dog, but sometimes he got out of hand. And lately he had been a very bad dog, barking and biting at anybody who came near him, even his master. His master's father had said the dog might have rabies or another disease. He hoped not. Satchel didn't need this; he was a good dog.  
  
"Satchel, come back!"  
  
Suddenly he stopped dead. He heard a scream from inside the forest and snarls, growls, screams. He heard a high-pitched scream of horror and one of pain.  
  
"SATCHEL!" Fearing for his dog, he increased his pace and ran into the forest.  
  
Suddenly he stopped, horrified. Blood covered the ground, pooled in corner. Another scream rose from behind him. He turned.  
  
There stood Satchel, covered in blood, his teeth bared, wickedly curved, glowing. His eyes were nothing but squints, his forehead drawn back in wrinkles. His tail stood on end and he was puffed to his fullest height. Blood stained his fur. His muscles coiled, bended, taunt.  
  
"Satchel!"  
  
The dog leapt forward, his paws outstretched.  
  
He screamed.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
Mark Callaway woke up screaming.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
The man standing under the shadow of the entrance to the hospital smiled. His digital clock rang shrilly and he turned off the alarm at precisely 10:54 PM. He smiled as he looked up at the endless windows of the hospital.  
  
Somewhere up there, Chris Irvine was falling back and screaming at the images hit him.  
  
Somewhere up there, Kurt Angle and Stephanie McMahon were experiencing waves of nausea and pain.  
  
Somewhere, Mark Callaway was waking up screaming.  
  
He only needed three more players and his playing field would be complete.  
  
He smiled again. He could almost taste victory.  
  
Rain started to fall.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Hope you guys enjoy it. 


	4. I said yea

Chapter Four ~*~*~* ~*~*~*~  
  
~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Shane McMahon picked up the phone and dialed the number carefully.  
  
"West Hope General Hospital," said a curt voice on the other end.  
  
"Hello," Shane said neutrally. "I was hoping you could tell me what room a friend of mine is in."  
  
"Yes. Who is the patient in question?"  
  
"His name is Christopher Irvine," Shane said, nervously plucking a strand from the sweater he had on.  
  
"He's in stable condition," said the receptionist. "Would you like me to connect you with his room?"  
  
"That would be great," Shane answered politely.  
  
There was a buzzing noise on the end of the phone. Shane waited impatiently, staring out the window of the bus. He only hoped that his sister hadn't left yet. It was a long shot; she had been gone for more than four hours. She had wanted to make a quick check-up and would be back soon. He had tried her cell phone to no avail though. Hopefully she had it only turned off.  
  
The phone in his ear began to ring.  
  
"Hello?" said a voice tiredly on the other end.  
  
"Hello? Who's this?"  
  
"Shane?" The voice was bewildered. "It's Kurt."  
  
"Oh, hi Kurt. How's Chris?"  
  
There was a silence on the other end.  
  
"Kurt? Are you still there?"  
  
"I'm here, man." His voice was hesitant. "I think Chris is alright. The doctor says he's alright."  
  
"What's wrong with him? Is he just sick?"  
  
"She says it may be post-traumatic stress, you know, from the earthquake."  
  
"In Chris?" Shane didn't believe it.  
  
"She says it's common in adults, especially ones who haven't lived through earthquakes before. Chris has never in his life been in an earthquake. Canada, man."  
  
"True," Shane admitted, but he hesitated. "You sound worried, Kurt. What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," Kurt said, a little too quickly. "It's just strange. Did you want something?"  
  
Shane made a sound in his throat. "I want to see if my sister's still there."  
  
Again, another silence. Shane watched as rain poured into the streets, splashing on the window. The world was distorted. It was gray. It was eerie. He leaned back against the seat, trying to calm his nerves. Things hadn't been going very well today.  
  
"She's here, Shane." His voice was cautious. "But I don't think she wants to talk right now."  
  
"Tell her it's important. I really need to speak with her." He didn't realize how desperate he sounded. Vainly, he clutched the seat in front of him with his other hand. The woman looked at him rudely. He didn't care. His sanity was spiraling away from him. "I really, really need to talk to her."  
  
Again, Kurt spoke cautiously, but this time with an edge in his voice. "I can't, Shane. She's sleeping."  
  
"Sleeping?" He almost exploded. She had gone out for a quick run! And now she was sleeping? "Wake her up!"  
  
"She's had a long day, Shane," Kurt said, his voice husky. "I won't wake her up."  
  
"Kurt, I'm not asking you to wake her up," Shane replied, his voice gravel. "I'm telling you. Now wake her up."  
  
A silence that seemed to fill the air. "I won't, Shane. I'm sorry. We've all had a long day and even a longer night. Do you realize it's almost one in the morning?"  
  
"I don't care, Kurt. Wake her up." Now he was getting angry. It was bad enough he was on a bus in the middle of the night in some God- forsaken city; it was bad enough it was raining enough for Noah to drown if he had the right mind to sail in the sea; it was bad enough his employee and good friend was sitting in a hospital bed, sick, and his sister was with him; it was bad enough that his head was pounding and he was going crazy. Couldn't he just listen?  
  
"Shane, for the last time, I'm telling you no. I have to go. They'll kick us out if we make anymore noise. Chris is sleeping, thank God."  
  
"KURT! Put her on the phone before I fire your ass!"  
  
"I don't care, Shane. I have to go. I'll have her call you later. Bye."  
  
"Kurt, don't!"  
  
But it was too late. Only a dial tone hummed in his ear.  
  
"Beautiful," he muttered, slumping back against the seat. "Just beautiful."  
  
The gray and black world floated in the rain.  
  
He felt sick, suddenly, again. He rubbed his temples. He had no clue to where he was, but he knew he didn't want to go home. He had left his parents' home without an answer to their questions. All he knew was that he had to get away. He had gotten on the nearest bus that ran in the late night and rode silently. He didn't care where he was going.  
  
His eyes ached to close. He wanted to sleep. His mind was on the verge of collapsing.  
  
But he didn't want to go home.  
  
As far as he was concerned, God could decide the time was right for the Rapture, a comet could come slamming into earth, and pigs could fly; he wasn't going home.  
  
Nothing could make him go home.  
  
~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Kurt's eyes were drawn to Stephanie, sleeping in the chair, a blanket pushed up to just under her chin. He looked at Chris, who was soundly asleep in his hospital bed, with some urging from the helpful morphine Simmons had decided to shoot him with.  
  
He rubbed his head. He was exhausted. He wanted to leave and check into a motel and drop into a blissful sleep. But his stomach was still hurting him. He felt that at any moment, he would have to stop and have a private moment with the bathroom. His head felt swelled, expanded, twisted.  
  
He felt sick. Stephanie had her private time with the bathroom already; he hadn't quite needed his yet, but he felt so sick.  
  
The doctor has let them stay in the hospital room, even though it was past visiting hours and any normal doctor would have long ago kicked them out. But Simmons had let them, her eyes cautious as she ordered some extra blankets into the room and two pillows.  
  
Kurt thought crazily, she probably thinks we have whatever Chris has. Maybe it's Ebola. How fun. An Olympic gold medalist running around infected with Ebola. I'm thrilled.  
  
He was far from it.  
  
He curled up in the chair, resting his head against the pillow, closing his eyes, willing whatever sickness he had away from him. He wanted peace. He wanted rest.  
  
Suddenly, massively, his stomach gave a heave. He leapt up.  
  
In the chair, he saw Stephanie's eyes spring open, her eyes bulging.  
  
He didn't have time to think.  
  
He didn't have time to do anything but dart to the bathroom.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~* Blood was gushing from his hand, teeth ripping, snapping, crackling.  
  
He wanted to scream; he wanted everything to stop. The pain was unbearable. It was a monster, a machine that tacked into his hand and wouldn't let go.  
  
He tried ripping his hand away; he was aware of the person behind him, screaming pointlessly. He was screaming too, but his scream was in pain, in horror.  
  
He felt something in his hand snap. Pain rushed up his body, swift, deadly. He threw his head back and cried, asking God for help, anything to save him.  
  
He stumbled back. He felt something slip from underneath his feet.  
  
He fell.  
  
~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Thanks for the ride," Shane told the bus driver politely. He was the last one on the bus. They were at the far end of town, the run down town teaming with drug dealers and low lives. At that point, Shane just didn't care.  
  
"No problem," the old man said, kindly. "You look troubled."  
  
"No trouble," Shane assured the man.  
  
"Watch out in this neighborhood," the man said, still kindly. "You look strong, but they'll gang up on you like fleas on a dog."  
  
"Thanks-"  
  
Something in his throat! Rising, flooding, open floodgates, teaming, streaming, rocketing!  
  
He gasped, trying to choke. He felt his eyes grow, his body tense, his muscles spasming.  
  
He turned around and fell down the bus stairs, landing in the grass of a strip. On all fours, he clutched the grass. He felt empty stalks break in his hand. His head was going to implode, it was going to burst, and he was going to die in some black abyss that was fog . . .  
  
Rain washed over him, drenched him, carried him.  
  
"Hey, are you alright?" he heard the bus driver say in alarm.  
  
No, he wanted to gasp, no, I'm dying.  
  
His forehead touched the ground. His hand clutched his stomach, still holding the grass he had ripped from the ground. Rain dripped off his head. He rocked back and forth, back and forth.  
  
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.  
  
The pain was too much. He fell onto his side, still holding his stomach, his eyes clenched, his hand still clutching the blades of grass.  
  
Rain dripped into his eyes.  
  
He opened them and with hand wiped his eyes furiously, still rocking.  
  
He looked at his hand.  
  
It was red.  
  
It was blood.  
  
~*~*~* ~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*  
  
I know there are no answers, yet, but I'm setting the mood. Don't worry; we'll get there soon enough. 


	5. To be true

~*~*~*~*Tell Me Why~*~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~**Chapter Four~*~*~*~*~*~* ~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"The coffee," Mark Callaway declared loudly as he stared into the chipped mug, "the coffee is what it is."  
  
"You didn't even have coffee last night," his wife, Sara, said accusingly. "And my coffee isn't that bad, is it?"  
  
He decided not to answer her. Little swirls of not yet dissolved creamer circled his mug, white mica in brown and dirtied stone.  
  
"Are you okay, Mark? You woke up screaming last night and you won't tell me why." She set down the pan she was holding and turned around to level with him. "You don't seem like yourself."  
  
"I'm fine," he protested, loudly. "I'm really very fine."  
  
Sun landed in a pure beam across his eyes from the window. He turned away.  
  
"No, ever since that earthquake, you haven't been fine."  
  
"Sara, I've lived in California and that wasn't the first earthquake I've felt. It won't be the last. Now stop worrying. I'm fine."  
  
She started to protest, but the phone started to buzz. She answered it.  
  
"Mark? It's for you."  
  
"If it's a fan, and this is payback, you're toast," he told her as he accepted the phone. "Hello?"  
  
"Soon."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Chris gazed out the window, feeling a ray of sun poke through the gray and angry clouds that littered the sky.  
  
"Chris? Do you think it's okay they're discharging you?"  
  
Chris swiveled his head around to look at his friend. Kurt was pale, his face drawn and weary. Concerned and tired brown eyes looked from red lines. "I mean, you just got in here yesterday. And you've been on morphine half the time. I don't like it. You should stay in here some more."  
  
Chris sighed. Great, yeah, let me stay in here and let time tock away. I feel fine. I feel great. I feel weird, but okay.  
  
"Kurt, look," he said, trying to cheer his friend. "I don't know what it is. I was dying last night, and now I'm fine. I feel like I could take you on in the ring. Come on, let it go. If anything, you should be in here."  
  
"First off, you will NEVER be able to take me on in the ring. Second, I feel perfectly fit. I see no reasons to spend my time rotting in a hospital bed." But his eyes were troubled.  
  
"Great, so do I, and the doctor agrees. Now, shut up and hide your eyes, pervert. I have to get dressed. I know what you do in your spare time." He swung in legs out of the bed and confidently began to walk into the bathroom.  
  
"Chris, I'm telling you as a friend." Kurt swerved to block Chris's entry into the bathroom. "Please just let them run some more tests."  
  
For a second, Chris just stared. Let them run tests? No, no, I'm fine. I can breathe, I can eat, and I really want to go outside. "There's nothing wrong, Kurt. Now go get some coffee before you start attacking me."  
  
Kurt's eyes widened, then shrunk again, coloring with defeat. "Fine, kill yourself. I'm going to get something to eat and when I come back here, your ass better be ready to leave."  
  
"Thank you Dr. Kurt," Chris said sarcastically. He went into the bathroom and closed the door quietly. "He worries too much," he proclaimed to himself as he studied himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and his face tired, but he looked pretty much like he always had. He rubbed his arm as it gave a sudden itch of pain. He turned on the faucet and held his hands cupped under the stream.  
  
*Don't you remember? Don't you remember the stream?*  
  
His head flew up. Voices!  
  
No, he was crazy . . . no voices. Crazy, he was crazy.  
  
He turned off the faucet, forgetting about his face. The room was deathly quiet. He peered around, but nothing suspicious greeted his eyes. No, he was just crazy.  
  
He finished what he needed to do and went outside the room, freshly changed and charged to go.  
  
"Stephanie," he said with a smile when he saw her.  
  
But she did not return the smile. Instead, she drew back, away, as if were a snake. Her eyes were tired, stressed, and scared.  
  
"Okay, we're talking, and we are talking right now," she told him, harshly, as she sat down heavily on the chair.  
  
Confused, he went to the bed and sat on the edge. "What's wrong, Steph? I didn't do anything last night while I was on the morphine, did I?"  
  
"Funny thing is," she said quietly, "you weren't on the morphine. And it seemed like you should have been."  
  
He was even more confused.  
  
"Don't you remember? The trees, Chris? You grabbed my hand and told me you saw trees. And then I did too." Her voice was trembling, shaking. "The dog with its teeth glowing and flying at you?"  
  
What was she talking about?  
  
She read the confusion in his eyes. "Tell me you remember, Chris. Tell me you remember!" Her voice ended with a shrill shriek, as if she needed the grain of truth.  
  
"Stephanie, where was I? When?"  
  
Her eyes turned angry and her hands balled into fists. "Chris, stop playing games! You were laying in that bed and when I came in here, you said you saw trees and then you touched me and then I saw trees too! You let me go and started crying!"  
  
No, he didn't remember. Not a word she said brought back any distant or vague memory. He tried to think, think to the night before; but when he did, he brought up only a huge blank.  
  
"Stephanie, I don't remember any of it."  
  
Her eyes suddenly flooded with tears.  
  
"Stephanie, don't cry, don't cry-"  
  
Silent tears were running down her cheeks, dripping quietly onto the floor. She made no sound, but closed her eyes and put her hand in front of her face, as if something was horrifying her.  
  
"Stephanie, I'm sorry, but please, don't cry-"  
  
The door opened. In came Dr. Simmons, carrying a clipboard. She stopped for a moment, and then gawked at them. "Am I interrupting something?" she asked uncomfortably.  
  
Chris looked at her helplessly, then at Stephanie's sobbing heap.  
  
"I'll come back in a few minutes," Simmons said hastily and fled.  
  
"Tell me you REMEMBER!" She seized Chris's hand. "Tell me you REMEMBER!"  
  
A tunnel of light fell on Chris.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
He hit something dark and hard. His head ached. He stopped and looked.  
  
The glass was empty before her, orange pulp staining its dirty sides. A spoon lay by eaten oatmeal. People in white uniforms moved around busily, eating, laughing, talking. Not him. He was staring into space. When would this vision leave his head? This vision of horror that he had received form Chris?  
  
But I am . . . Chris.  
  
His head shifted. A purse lay on the table. These weren't his memories . . . this was the hospital cafeteria . . .these were Stephanie's memories . . .  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
"Tell me you remember, please, tell me."  
  
Electricity warmed his hand. He blinked. Flowers! Flowers had been before him, stationed on the table to add color to the dreary atmosphere. But now Stephanie's face, her eyes red, tears trickling to a halt, stood before him. He felt rocked, bottomless. What was going on?  
  
Suddenly Stephanie stood up, wiping her face. "Okay, fine, play your stupid games Chris. I don't know what the hell you want, but stop it. Stop it."  
  
"Stephanie, what . . . I don't understand . . ."  
  
But it was too late. She was out the door, leaving it wide open.  
  
In stepped Simmons, who had apparently been waiting patiently for what she thought was probably a lovers' spat to end.  
  
She was so wrong.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
He found a place to wipe the blood off his hands.  
  
But it didn't help him.  
  
Shane looked himself in the scarred, dirty mirror he had found in the bathroom of the rundown park.  
  
Nothing was going to help him.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
Please, I need critique. I need to know what you guys are feeling. 


	6. Unbidden

Thanks to everybody who reviewed this story. It makes a very big difference, as I'm sure you all know. (  
  
A/N: You guys who reviewed earlier read another version of this chapter. This is the revamped one. The top part has only a few changes, but the bottom one is completely different. I realized what I needed to do when I uploaded it and realized my mistake.  
  
Thanks to those who reviewed. And if you want to review again, that would be nifty too. ( ~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~* Chapter Five ~*~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"I'm not letting you go," Kurt stubbornly told Chris as he entered the freeway.  
  
"Kurt, you don't control my life," Chris told him, trying to remain good-natured, but his patience was being sorely tested. "And I'm perfectly fine. I had a mental crash, but now I'm back and as good as ever. I'll talk to Vince, we'll sort everything out about the show tonight, and everything will be okay."  
  
"I don't agree," Kurt said silkily.  
  
"Well," Chris blurted, "my life does not have to agree with what you think."  
  
Kurt did not answer. Chris felt immediately like a jerk. Kurt was his friend and he was trying to do what he thought was best. Chris could have at least accepted it kindly and graciously. He looked at Kurt, whose eyes were focused on the road intently. Ignoring him, most likely. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, he sighed and slumped down in his seat.  
  
The phone in the cup holder clanged. Kurt quickly glanced then, picked it up with one hand, and flipped it open. His gaze fixed on the caller ID for a moment, clouded his confusion, and he put the phone to his ear. "Hello. Who's this?"  
  
Chris snuck a glance up at his friend. Kurt's mouth opened his wide surprise for a moment. His eyes became unfocused. His head dipped.  
  
"Kurt?"  
  
The car swerved across a lane of traffic, and Kurt's head surged upwards blindly, his eyes closed and upward through the glass. Chris felt a pang of fear as horns honked and cars banked wildly out of the way. Surprise took him and he started to yell. "Kurt, Kurt! KURT!"  
  
Fear closed around him. Cars flew. Horns blew. Rhymes, rhyme! Oh jeez, I'm gonna die, Kurt's gonna kill us . . .  
  
Chris thought that maybe it was only in reality five seconds from when Kurt had first swerved until he straightened, but for him, it was an eternity. The yellow lines in the asphalt dizzied him; the brown walls containing the freeway swirled into one cage. He felt sick.  
  
But . . . slowly . . . he felt the car stopping. He felt his chest jolt and his legs kick under the dashboard involuntarily. Hardly breathing, Chris dared a look at his friend.  
  
Kurt's head dropped, his eyes opened, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. The car slowly straightened. His gaze refocused, his mouth closed, and he looked straight ahead into the freeway. He put the phone back in the cup holder and he slumped slightly back against the seat.  
  
He maneuvered the car to the off ramp, made a sharp turn into a dusty street, and came to rest in a quiet neighborhood.  
  
"Kurt . . ." Chris panted at him, his heart thundering and his head and arm aching fiercely. His back started to ache. "Kurt, what happened? Are you okay?"  
  
"Yes." The voice was loud, too loud, forceful and raucous. "Everything's okay. I had my moment of temporary insanity, but I'm fine now." He was still loud, but now he was forcedly cheerful. "Sorry there, Chris. It was my fault. I hope nobody got hurt."  
  
Chris didn't buy it. "Kurt, I don't believe you. What's wrong?" No way had Kurt just caused Chris's heart to plummet, make a mad charge into heaving cars, and stop in a quiet neighborhood where serial killers lurked for nothing. Serial killers?  
  
"Nothing's wrong, Chris." Now his voice was ashamed. "I just lost my hearing for a second. When I lose that, it panics me. I'm sorry."  
  
Chris was not as much astonished by Kurt's blatant statement, but at his bland lie. Kurt was, of course, deaf in one ear. Of course Chris knew that. But he was supposed to believe that Kurt's panic had been caused by a lost of hearing? What kind of idiot lie was that? Kurt played in the ring with the big boys every day. And he expected Chris to believe that?  
  
Chris opened his mouth to speak.  
  
"Just shut up, Chris. I'm sorry, okay?" His voice was pleading. "Drop it and let me drive."  
  
Chris was shocked by this and dismayed that his friend would expect him to turn away from something like this.  
  
"Kurt-"  
  
"Chris, just leave me alone. I'll get us there."  
  
Kurt's voice was sharp. Every fiber in Chris's being told him to fight against what Kurt had said.  
  
But he decided, against everything that was just in him, to drop whatever issue had arisen. His head thudded painfully and arm stung like bees had attacked him. His back felt heavy and he wanted to suddenly fall into sleep.  
  
"Fine, Kurt, whatever. Let's just keep going."  
  
Kurt looked at him, and Chris felt his eyes. He stole a glance up, and found . . . disappointment?  
  
"Sure, Chris. Let's go."  
  
Uneasiness and pain colored Kurt's face. Chris could almost taste the thickness in the air when Kurt's heavy foot dropped on the engine. Something had troubled him, clearly, and Chris could not place what it was. He wanted to think about it more, ponder it, and turn it over in his head.  
  
But his back ached and his head and his arm throbbed, and he wanted nothing more to sleep. Pain littered him, and he slumped down low in his seat, turned over toward the window, and made a cradle out of the seatbelt. He shut his eyes.  
  
"Chris? Are you alright?"  
  
Chris did not open his eyes. He clenched them in pain, and tried to keep it out of his voice. "Yeah, Kurt. Yeah."  
  
He wasn't turned over. He didn't see, though he felt something, that Kurt was looking at him with concerned eyes, that Kurt's face was distorted in something of concern and confusion, and that his gaze, though also on Chris, was on the phone.  
  
And Chris drifted into sleep, his head still cradled in the seatbelt, and with two words floating around his mind.  
  
Serial killers.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
He quickened his pace along the hallway. Things were wrong. He could feel it in the atmosphere; it was too thick, too tense. He could feel it in his bones, trickling through his skin, seeping into his bloodstream, into his heart. He felt despair and an emptiness he could not describe.  
  
He stopped at the door leading out into the parking structure. Everything in him told him to go through it, to run, and to search. His legs itched and his eyes started watering. He felt physical pain. He had to leave. He had to leave and find something . . . something that was lost and alone and scared.  
  
His hand touched the doorknob, which immediately turned cold underneath his hand. No. He couldn't start losing it here. He had to be calm, cool, collected. He had a job to do here; he had moral obligations to produce. And if he bucked his moral obligations, then he would be no different than those he opposed.  
  
But still, something . . . something important was lost.  
  
He turned away from the door. Turned away from everything just in him told him to do.  
  
He had duty elsewhere, but his duty was right before him . . . . his mind roamed the world. In Europe, he skimmed breezily over the Parliament; in the Middle East, he dipped over Jerusalem, and saw the lives being wasted there, dreams being killed; in Washington, he floated over the White House, saw a person who could have passed for the President. Nothing was wrong in these things; in fact, he had often spent many nights gazing lovingly into the orb of the world that he could summon into his mind. Nothing was different in these pictures.  
  
But something was different elsewhere, something somewhere.  
  
He muttered to himself, as he often did, "I have something to do. It's my duty."  
  
Yet, wasn't protecting those who mattered his duty as well?  
  
He had felt inklings earlier, his senses sharpening and special talent moving forward in passion. His enemy had moved, he guessed, but he didn't know why or when. He had felt that same suspicion, earlier, much, a week ago, when the earthquake had struck. It had been much stronger then. But now he felt it again, less sharp, less calling, less burning his mind, but he could still make it out in his mind.  
  
Briefly, he let his mind soar into the building, the orb in his mind growing to absorb the enormity of the population. He saw nothing that wasn't unusual, saw no murderers, no crazies taking drugs, no parents abusing their children, as he often saw. Nothing to arouse his suspicion. Nothing here.  
  
"Hey, Hardy."  
  
The voice dragged him from his thoughts and brought him back to the world. "Yeah?"  
  
"You okay, Matt? You're staring off into nothing. Have any drugs I can buy?"  
  
Bradshaw was poking fun at him, again, but Matt didn't have any time for this. He needed to head to his match, finish it, and leave. To . . . find the thing that was lost and perhaps help put something back on its track.  
  
"Nothing, Bradshaw. Nothing at all. I just have to go and wrestle and I'll be done. See ya." He headed the other direction.  
  
"Hey, Matt, did you hear what happened to Shane?" Bradshaw called, his voice buoyant.  
  
Matt didn't particularly care, but to humor him, he replied, "No."  
  
"He's missing."  
  
Matt stopped. Froze. Became a statue.  
  
"Matt? Are you okay?"  
  
Something was lost.  
  
Something that needed to be found.  
  
But . . . it wasn't just Shane. It was a soul that had been dirtied, touched. And not just one. More. A large number.  
  
He needed to move. 


	7. There Is No Escape

Here's my chapter. It's very short.  
  
__  
  
Chapter Six __  
  
There Is No Escape  
  
__  
  
"So you do understand what you need to do?" Vince McMahon asked, his eyes glassy. "I'm not up for repeating myself."  
  
"I do," Chris assured. "I know what I have to do. Are you alright, Vince?"  
  
The WWE's owner's eyes were tired. "I should be asking you the same thing," he answered, eluding the question.  
  
Chris took it in stride and said, eagerly, "I'm fine. I feel fit as a fiddle. The doctor said I was okay."  
  
"He's not!"  
  
The snarl came from Kurt, standing by the door, watching them both intently. His eyes were fiery as they fell upon the pair.  
  
Vince looked at him in interest. "What do you mean, Kurt?"  
  
"He's not okay," Kurt said, ignoring Chris's smoldering gaze. "I don't know why the doctor let him out. He was dying last night and now suddenly he's fine? And today, on the way here, he was really tired. He looked sick. I don't think he's okay. He could injure someone."  
  
"I could injure someone?" Chris burst out, his heart swelling in anger. "How about you, all high and mighty? I'm not the one who almost killed us on the freeway!"  
  
"I told you," Kurt shot back, "that it was my hearing! I'm not sick, I'm not like-"  
  
"Shut up, the both of you," Vince snapped suddenly and they both fell silent. "You're acting like children. Chris, is it true? Do you really feel sick still?"  
  
Anger fluttering within him, Chris forced himself to nod. "I do, a little. It's not much. My back aches and so does my head, but it's not like I've never wrestled like this before. I don't know why Kurt is complaining." He tried to say it neutrally, but it came out forced.  
  
"I'm saying it because-"Kurt began to say angrily.  
  
"And what about almost killing you on the freeway, Kurt?" Vince said.  
  
Kurt's face paled and he looked around wildly. "It was nothing. Sometimes my hearing goes out and today it really disoriented me. It was nothing. It happens sometimes."  
  
Vince eyed them both measuring. "Under normal circumstances, I'd have you both checked out by a doctor. You can't go out there hurt. But these are not normal circumstances." His face was white. "The earthquake really set us back and we need you all to give your best. When we get everything settled, then you both will go to a doctor to make sure you're fine. But right now, frankly, I don't give a damn. Both of you need to go out and do your best. Thank you both."  
  
Chris and Kurt just looked at him.  
  
Glaring at them, Vince said, "You heard me. Go and prepare. Now."  
  
Without another glance at Vince, they left the room and entered the hallway.  
  
"Why did you do that?" Chris asked Kurt as soon as they were out. "What's wrong with you?"  
  
Kurt kept his eyes averted. "I'm telling you, I think you're a danger. You don't look good."  
  
"Let me be the judge of that," Chris said viciously, quashing the urge to lash out at his friend.  
  
"And what about you bringing up me and the freeway?"  
  
"Let me think," Chris said sarcastically. "Could it be because you brought up something about me?"  
  
"That's very immature of you," Kurt said, starting to swiftly walk down the hallway.  
  
"Immature?" Chris started to scream at him, anger boiling inside him. "That's immature, get back here-"  
  
"Chris."  
  
The voice was frosty with just an ounce of fear. Chris turned. "Stephanie?"  
  
Her face was a pale pallor and her eyes showed the signs of crying for many hours. Not even her make-up could disguise the signs of wear and tear on her. She seemed to have suffered in the past few hours.  
  
"Are you alright, Stephanie?" Chris asked awkwardly, remembering too clearly their last encounter.  
  
"No, I'm not," she said. "You're making a fool of me."  
  
"I told you, I don't remember. And that's not the only thing that's bothering you." His voice was tender. "What's wrong?"  
  
Suddenly she screamed, loudly, "My brother's missing, okay? Just stop prying me about it!'  
  
Chris stepped back suddenly. "What?"  
  
"Shane's missing," she said, tears filling her eyes. "I don't know where he is!"  
  
Sudden pain attacked Chris and he doubled over, wincing.  
  
"What's wrong?" Stephanie asked, concerned, the tears starting to slip down her cheeks.  
  
"Serial killers," he coughed and fell to the floor.  
  
__  
  
He could see the boy in front of him, running. The boy's hair was shaggy and black, and it swung around his head like a whip.  
  
Fool. Didn't he know that nobody could outrun him?  
  
And his green eyes glowing, he bounded after the doomed boy.  
  
__  
  
I'm sorry it's so short, but I've neglected this story terribly and I wanted to give you something. I know you probably won't enjoy it. .. But it's the least I could do. 


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